Molly's Anatomy
by Cheeseball Vacuum
Summary: Dr. Hooper finds family among friends.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello. This is going to be a modern family story focusing on Molly. I am shiny and new, and looking for beta readers. This will be a multi-chapter story, probably no romance, lots of fluff. If you like and want to proof read this story, please let me know._

She never thought she was a bad friend before. A strange friend, definitely. Being a pathologist was not something to be swallowed with laughter and wine at dinner parties. A boring friend, according to some – most especially to Sherlock, oh she was sure of that. But these things she was at ease with: strange, but boring. It was kind of how her life always was.

Mousy Molly, they called her when she was a little girl. It matched her mousy hair and her silence and her fearful eyes. And she kept mousily, silently, fearfully studying through a medical degree. She wanted to become like one of those doctors on TV, all glamorous and in control. But her brief stint at surgical residency was horrid. There was too much pressure. And people, if she were to be honest. She found her calling in pathology instead. Working quietly in solitude, save for the dead.

Until Sherlock. He came crashing into her life, and he could not have made a bigger imression if he was wearing a mask and a cape. She had done some work for the police before. But it was one thing to write reports and fax it off to the police, and quite another to have someone bombastically bouncing around in her own lab solving murders left and right. He was a hero, no, a _super_hero and he was _her_ superhero. And… therein lied her mistake.

She wanted to apologise. She didn't want him to know why, but he would deduce it anyway. So she might as well do it properly.

ooooo

It was not like how she thought these things happened. But she supposed that no one expected these things to happen anyway. If they did, they would have kept their guard up. Maybe it was her fault that she didn't.

Dave seemed like such a lovely man. Through dinner he charmed her with funny stories and attentiveness. They talked about all sorts of things, and especially her favourite things: her work, her preference in books, her cat Toby. He was really listening, not just pretending to, she could tell. He asked her to elaborate and laughed at all her jokes.

It was her first date after Jim, but she found that it was easier than she feared. She wanted to be loved so badly, to love so badly. She knew, even as she was sobbing hysterical apologies into the phone to DI Lestrade when he called to tell her about Jim. She thought that she couldn't give up on love, not then, and not ever. And so only after a couple of months, she found herself accepting an invitation to dinner from a smiling man she met in her favourite second hand book shop.

ooooo

John Watson couldn't help but stare. He even heard the unshakeable Sherlock breathe in sharply at the sight of her. Their pathologist (he wasn't sure when exactly he started thinking of Molly as theirs, but slowly but surely she became an invaluable member of their crime-solving, swash-buckling A-team with Lestrade and Mrs. H) was black and blue… and yellow and green and orange. A plethora of bruises decorated half her face, and her bottom lip was badly split.

"Jesus, Molly. Are you alright? What happened?" his words came tumbling out, and he took a step closer to inspect her injuries, his doctor instinct kicking in.

He didn't quite manage though, as Molly took a quick step backwards, her eyes wide and fearful.

There was a pin drop beat of silence, in which everyone processed this new development in _their_ tiny pathologist's behaviour.

Molly looked like she was scared of him. Molly looked like she didn't want to talk about it. Molly looked like she might start crying.

John recovered quicker, and started bumbling, trying to make things more comfortable for her, "Right. Right. We were hoping you were finished with the Jane Doe autopsy? Lestrade said he phoned you earlier, to bump it up the priority list. 'Course, it's ok if you haven't gotten around to it yet, we'll just come back later, won't we Sherlock? We'll just pop out to the caf…"

"Certainly not," Sherlock crisply interrupted John. "We need it now; I need to incorporate the autopsy data into my deductions to finalise the list of suspects. I do not have the time or the inclination to merely sit in a hospital cafeteria drinking that bathwater that they call tea."

Before John could admonish Sherlock, Molly abruptly turned and shoved a file into Sherlock's hands, talking quickly in only a slightly shaky voice.

"Here. As expected, she died from strangulation. But there was some unusual bruising on her back – here, I'll show you."

And they were off, Molly finding comfort in the distraction. John stood solidly by from the side lines. Sherlock swiftly looked, touched and sniffed the victim's back and neatly cut out a sample of it with a scalpel that he produced from his own person. John thought for a moment that Sherlock might pop it into his mouth for a taste analysis, when the consultant detective strode out of the room, yelling out "Ha! It _was_ the librarian!"

John stayed, and looked at Molly pleadingly. "You don't have to tell us what happened. We're there for you. Whatever you need."

He took care to give her space this time, not wanting to frighten her again. She looked so sad and helpless under the harsh, cold mortuary lights. He wanted to give her a hug, or at least sit her down for a good cup of tea and biscuits, but he knew he shouldn't, not yet.

He gave her a moment to respond, and when she didn't, he murmured, "He's worried, you know. It might not seem like it, but I can tell…"

"John… thanks," Molly whispered, her professional façade faltering at his words, his kindness.

John gave her a solemn nod, and left.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Lestrade had seen a lot. He was a beat cop, and then rose excruciatingly through the ranks to a detective inspector in the homicide division. On bad days, he felt like he had seen the worst of human nature. But on very bad days, he knew he hadn't, because there was always, always a fresh kind of hell.

The day he called Molly was definitely a Very Bad Day. John called him to report what had happened, and the DI had literally dropped the forkful of curry that was halfway to his mouth and ran out, calling his team and the Bomb Squad on route.

As soon as he had determined that both Sherlock and John were safe, and the pool was not in imminent danger of blowing up, he called Molly. He was standing next to the ambulance: close to Sherlock and John, away from the hubbub. They had those stupid orange blankets thrown about their shoulders, but they looked like they needed it for once. They followed him with their eyes. He couldn't help but think that they looked like children who expected something from their father. He already felt like a failure, not being able to protect them. But at least there was no harm done. But Molly…

Those eyes were still on him. Obviously, someone had to call Molly. They needed it to be him.

"I'm going to call Molly," he said, seemingly to the air. Two pale faces bobbed up and down into the night.

"Hello? Detective Inspector Lestrade? Do you need me to come in?" Molly answered.

Lestrade took in a big breath.

"Listen, Molly…"

ooooo

Sherlock was sitting next to John. He was keeping John company with the damned blankets. The good doctor seemed to need it, and he felt like he owed him at least that much. It was a tedious business, waiting for the incompetent fools to finish processing the bomb, the pool and them. In. That. Order.

Something in his mind palace demanded attention. There was a whiney kind of noise coming from the room he kept next to John's. This room always smelt like chocolate chip cookies, and full of orange cats. Or rather, many copies of the same orange cat. He had to go in from time to time to delete the cats before they spiralled out of control. How many more cat stories could Molly possibly have to tell him? It seemed to him that it must be nearly impossible to have more.

But today he ignored the cats. He could delete them later. Instead he listened. And when he looked for the source, he found another cat. But this one was new, and wasn't at all like the others. This one was sleek and black, and mean and dangerous. It was cruelly playing with a mouse. It wasn't hunting for food, it was just playing, because it was _bored_. He could understand that. But when he looked at the mouse, he was suddenly very angry, and he thought that the sound he was hearing was like a girl crying.

Outside, he found himself unable to look at anything but Lestrade as he made a phone call.

ooooo

John was awfully glad that it was Greg who was calling Molly. John respected the older man. He had so much _dignity_, despite his job and, well, despite Sherlock. As the newest member of the Sherlock Holmes crime-fighting club, John felt certain he was the right man for the job. Because if the eponymous member was the star quarterback, Lestrade was the coach, pulling them all through this from the side lines.

John was also ashamed to be so relieved that he didn't have to. He couldn't quite process how the bomb that was strapped to his chest was connected to a pathologist's heart.

All he could do at this moment was to sit next to Sherlock, making sure that he didn't throw off the shock blankets and watch Greg call Molly.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

She apologised _excessively_, Sherlock thought. She was constantly interrupting him with apologies about the tardiness of the lab reports, the squeakiness of the morgue fridges, the running out of the "good" coffee in the tea room, the weather, and so on and so on. And then she apologised for interrupting him with her apologies.

Molly's apologies were an instrument in the orchestral soundtrack of the St. Bart's Morgue Laboratory, along with the various and singular humming of the laboratory machines and the squeaking of the fridges. Sherlock found that the overall effect had a positive impact on his work, though he couldn't say why.

But this apology was not the same sort. It had a different tenor to it that he didn't like very much at all.

ooooo

Molly thought that she had too many things to apologise for. She could apologise perpetually, forever, and it might not be enough. How can you apologise to friends for falling in love with the man who tried to blow them up to smithereens? She didn't know, she didn't know, she said it over and over and over to DI Lestrade that night, and she never stopped thinking it whenever she saw Sherlock or John.

And it broke her all over again when she apologised for yet another thing, only months later and yet again for her treacherous heart.

ooooo

Sherlock had returned hours later. But _which_ librarian, he thought impatiently, that was the question. The bruising that Molly found was crucial, but there were still too many possibilities and one too many suspects. Of _course_ there were _two_ librarians in the swim team.

He had just finished analysing the pool water, when he noticed Molly hovering near the door.

"Where's John?" he demanded. He wasn't good at the "people stuff", as John so ineptly called it. He would prefer John to do the talking with Molly. That was John's forte. Sherlock would do his part. He had already planned to deal with the left-handed 176cm-tall male who did that to Molly, but that hardly needed a conference.

"He's gone to get us proper coffee. He told you before he left," Molly said quietly.

"Oh."

"I need to… um… I need to talk to you about something," Molly's said slowly, her words slurred by the split lip.

Sherlock sat still, waiting for her to continue.

"I know you figured it all out already, but… something happened to me. And I realised something. You don't like all this… flirting business. I don't... I don't now either. So I wanted to tell you that I'm really sorry about that. That I made you uncomfortable. I know it must've been horrible. I'm sorry. Oh, um… sorry, did you finish with the pool sample? I hope I didn't interrupt you," Molly said.

Sherlock studied the woman in front of him. She had always apologised excessively.

_ooooo_

_Hello again! Would people like me to continue? I am enjoying writing it. :) I am still looking for someone to beta it. I thought it might be better for someone to read it and like it first before they committed on helping me with it._

_Thank you katdemon18 for your kind words. It spurred me on to write this chapter today. And yes, Dave will certainly be dealt with later._


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